


Alphabet Soup

by sherlockstummy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Belly Kink, Food, Food Kink, Food Porn, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:53:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockstummy/pseuds/sherlockstummy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A-Z of Sherlock eating different foods. Somewhere in there, he starts to gain weight. So, what will happen when Sherlock eats? Read on!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A is for Apple

John knew about the cafe across the street. Sherlock knew the owners (when didn’t he?), and it was home to surprisingly good food for such a tiny, family-owned business. They had good prices, too, not that John ever had to worry about paying when Sherlock was with him. Frederick’s, the place was called. It stayed open this late to accommodate tourists and businessmen with jet lag and the patrons of the nightclub two streets down. The owner (Frederick, and the fifth one in his family, according to Sherlock) was a pleasant man besides, and never assumed John was Sherlock’s date.

So, John was surprised when Sherlock hailed a taxi instead of just walking across the street. Sherlock got in the cab and ordered the cabbie to drive them home. John sat in the cab very confused. He, truthfully, was pretty hungry himself, having just chased a killer through most of Kensington, but at least he’d been able to get a meal in today while Sherlock was trying to piece together evidence at the Yard. Sherlock hadn’t eaten for two days, and hadn’t had a full meal in at least a week. Now, Sherlock didn’t completely starve himself outside of cases, but he…well, it was called “fasting,” wasn’t it? Eating sparingly and only having one large meal a day? Well, Sherlock’s eating habits were a bit like that. Except his full meals were pretty rare, and only came in succession around holidays. Sherlock was strong and very good at abstaining (he never even looked at food while on a case, and never seemed tempted by John’s meals in general), but even he had to be absolutely starving by now.

John opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Sherlock cut him off. “I’m exhausted, John.” It was the answer to John’s ‘Why didn’t we go to Frederick’s?’ 

“Sherlock,” John scolded, “you need to eat something.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance and shuffled to turn towards the window, facing his back to John like a five year old. After long moments of silence, he bit out, “Don’t remind me.” And fell silent again.

John figured he could consider that a victory, and he let the subject drop. They were back in Baker Street and up the stairs before he brought it up again. Sherlock was just about to retreat into his room when John stopped him. “Sherlock.”

“What?” The detective snapped. “I’ve already told you, I’m exhausted! I don’t want to eat, I don’t want to talk, for once, I want to sleep, and I would thank you to-” he interrupted himself as John pressed something smooth and slightly rounded into his palm. “What-?” He looked at it curiously. Yellow with pink splotches on the surface belied a sweet, firm inside. “An apple?” He glared at John, who, despite the hour, was making himself a cup of tea and holding an apple under the tap.

“Just eat it, Sherlock.” John replied in a soldierly voice that left no room for argument. “You haven’t eaten at all in two days, and you haven’t eaten properly for at least a week.”

Sherlock was going to argue, anyway. “John-“

“One bite,” John conceded. “One bite and I’ll be happy, Sherlock.”

The detective rolled his eyes, leaned moodily against the counter, one arm crossed at his chest and the other bent at the elbow, the apple inches from his lips. Like a toddler trying to make a point, he bit into the apple and chewed purposefully. John shook his head and went to drink his tea.

Which meant he didn’t see what happened next.

Eventually, the fine work of his jaw turned the bite of apple into a fine pulp ideal for digestion. Sherlock swallowed it with a fine coating of saliva, letting his internal organs do the rest of the breaking down. However, once it had settled in his stomach, a strange feeling bubbled to his brain. Sherlock could only describe the feeling as a craving. He wanted more. 

Cravings had happened to Sherlock before. After cases when he ate-mostly for the first time in days-the same feeling would arouse in him after his first bite, and often before the pulpy chewed food reached his stomach. Sherlock knew that this was an act of self-preservation, his body sending his brain a message that more food was needed immediately to continue to function. Sherlock knew his own limits, and therefore could predict a collapse days in advance, but since he so rarely ate full meals, he allowed his body to act in such a way and obeyed, except if the food was particularly off-putting.  
Sherlock had cravings in the other sense, too. He often desired certain foods and planned to eat or abstain from them, like the rest of the human race. If he felt he was doing well and deserved a reward, he let his body dictate his meals or snacks. If he had failed, he would be less likely to cooperate with cravings. Most of the time, though, Sherlock listened to these cravings, because most of the time, they indicated something that his body was missing. And if he was craving sweets, well…sweet teeth ran in the family and nothing could be done about that.

To say Sherlock was surprised about his body craving the remainder of the apple was putting it mildly. In his considerable experience, he had always found that his body tended to favor sleep over food, as the former was harder to come by and the latter could serve as a relaxant or a stimulant in a pinch. What was causing his body to throw away its values? It didn’t make sense. While Sherlock stood confused, the apple began to react chemically to the air and its exposed skin began to tint brown. Sherlock was startled out of his confusion by a shy rumble from his stomach.

That did it. Sherlock bit the apple again, chewed, and swallowed. He repeated the process until he’d cleaned the apple down to the seeds at the core. Even then, he nibbled at the meat still left there without snagging the tougher pouches keeping the seeds in formation. Satisfied that no more juicy apple, slightly brown from exposure or otherwise, was to be found, he binned the core and licked the stickiness from his fingers in contemplation. 

It felt good, having something to eat after going two days without. Sherlock’s tongue rested against his teeth as he thought about the full English John would no doubt make for breakfast tomorrow and his mouth watered. His appetite began to creep up on him, perhaps seeking to strike while the iron was hot.

Then, Sherlock yawned, and he remembered he hadn’t slept for two days. He crept to his bedroom, stripped, and fell among the sheets, curling himself into them and finally settling down to sleep with a contented hum.

Tomorrow was going to be a good day.


	2. B is for Bread and Butter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John uses a sneaky tactic.

The only thing harder than getting Sherlock to eat was brain surgery, and John Watson was pretty sure he could perform brain surgery right now.

Sherlock was not usually a man for big breakfasts. Save for the times when he was bored (surprisingly) or they had just finished a case (unsurprising), Sherlock usually settled for a few slices of toast and a cup of tea. 

When he wasn't working, anyway. Which was about 90% of the time.

John's stomach was growling, so he set about making a full English-eggs, bacon, and sausage, and tea and toast were a staple. Sherlock was working at his desk, staring at a few cultures growing in a petri dish. John set the eggs to sizzle and reached into the pantry for the bread, stealing glances at his flatmate over his shoulder. Even in a dressing gown that billowed around him and a baggy sleep shirt to match, Sherlock looked just this side of underweight. John hadn't seen Sherlock collapse. That didn't mean there wasn't a chance he would. If only the man would eat just a little bit more. Once a day, every day, is all John asked.

The doctor put two pieces of toast in the toaster (after checking it thoroughly for any of Sherlock's experiments) and went over to set the bacon and sausage to sizzle. As he checked on his eggs, he had a naughty little thinky-thought. His mum used to give him bread and salted butter for breakfast on days when he had to rush off to school in a hurry or when he needed a quick afternoon snack. Toast would create crumbs, and if there was one thing Sherlock hated, it was crumbs in his cultures.

John quickly grabbed two slices of bread and a clean plate. He grabbed the butter, checking to see it was the salty kind and analyzing it to see if it was safe. He warmed a knife under the tap and carefully spread the slightly frozen butter over the bread's flat surface. Then, he walked over to his flatmate and placed the plate near Sherlock's wrist. The detective inclined his head slightly, indicating he knew John was there, but didn't take his eyes off his petri dishes. John went away to start the kettle and collect his now-cooked breakfast. 

As he poured the tea minutes later, he was rewarded by the muted sound of munching coming from the other room and a slight hum of appreciation as Sherlock finished his light breakfast. John smiled and sat down to eat.


	3. C is for Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a tummy ache...

John was very tempted to switch browser tabs, go to Youtube, look up the “Jaws” theme, and play it loud and proud. He settled instead for imagining he heard it and snickering like a little kid.

On their clean kitchen table sat a store brought cake, free from its plastic cover, calm as you please under the fluorescent lights. And Sherlock was circling it, his pale eyes squinted slightly, as if he didn’t know what it was.

Wait… “Please don’t tell me you’ve deleted cake.”

Sherlock ignored him. “What is it?” His tone had a slight snappishness to it, but curiosity was heavy on his tongue.

“Cake.”

“I know that,” Sherlock snapped. “What’s it doing here?”

“Mrs. Hudson left it this morning while you were having a kip. Said the bakery made a mistake and offered it to us.”

“Why didn’t you say no?” Sherlock was still circling, still staring, and now his voice was melting, too, going from the sharp analyst to…not-sharp analyst.  
Was it John’s imagination, or was Sherlock’s voice getting…deeper?

“Maybe I fancied a cake.”

“So you cleaned the worktop. Hmm.” Nope, it wasn’t his imagination. Sherlock’s voice was slowly dropping, getting deeper and deeper. His pacing, by contrast, had only become more rapid. At some point, he’d changed from counter-clockwise to clockwise, his shoes clicking against the tiles as he orbited the cake.

“Just gave it a quick wipedown. The cake’s on a holder, anyway, so it’s not touching the wood.”

Sherlock snorted. “Acid can erode cardboard.” For a second, his voice held attentive reason. Then, it dropped again. “What does one do with a cake…?”  
“Eat it?” John guessed. He hoped that’s what would be happening. He wouldn’t mind a dose of sugar as a reward at the end of a trying week. Though if Sherlock already had something else in mind, the cake was a POW for sure.

Sherlock stopped so abruptly that an errant curl detached itself from the rest of his head and came to rest on his forehead. “Why?” He asked, shifting so he was leaning pensively against the sink, his eyes still focused on the intruder. “My birthday is several months past. For yours, it’s far too early.”

“It doesn’t have to be your birthday for you to eat cake, Sherlock.” John delivered the line like he was about to laugh. Which he was. It was laughable that Sherlock seriously couldn’t handle their current situation.

Sherlock blinked. “Whyever would anyone choose to eat cake without it being their birthday?” Even though he sounded slightly confused-no, “dazed” was the word-or, perhaps, because of it, John caught the slight movement at Sherlock’s lips, the tip of his tongue just touching the bow of his lips. 

And John knew that, even if Sherlock didn’t feel hungry, Sherlock was, in fact, hungry. He knew enough of the mysterious Sherlock to know that. “Why don’t you have a slice?” John asked nonchalantly. “Taste test it. See if it’s any good.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “What flavor is it?”

“Chocolate, I think. With butter cream icing.” Again with the lip-lick. John grinned to himself, knowing he’s won.

Ever so hesitantly, as if he was afraid he would shatter the air around him, Sherlock turned, taking his eyes off the cake, to get a plate from the cabinet. John watched as Sherlock fetched his utensils and gently, with the steady hands of a well-trained surgeon, Sherlock cut a small slice and brought it to the plate. He held it up to the light, tilting it this way and that to examine the cake up close. Then, he brought it to chest level, raised his fork, separated a small bite from the rest of the slice, and raised it to his lips. With much hesitance, he parted his lips just enough to let fork and cake slide through. He chewed slowly and contemplatively and swallowed with grace. 

The smile that crossed his face was indulgent and blissful. Sherlock tilted his head back, eyes closing, and licked the rest of the bite from his lips. “Moist chocolate cake, chocolate buttercream icing, raspberry filling,” he mused, his voice dreamier than usual. “An interesting mixture of flavors.” He straightened up again and abandoned the slice, almost running from the room.

John debating putting the cake away, but decided to have a slice of his own first. Then, he put the rest of it away.

After John went to sleep, Sherlock returned to the cake, his eyes transfixed. “How have you made me so hungry?” He asked it, taking it from the shelf in the fridge and grabbing a fork. “How?” He stabbed it. “Tell me!” Of course, it wouldn’t tell him. And, after a while, the calming taste and feel of the cake as it hit his tongue and slid down his throat was…addicting. Sherlock found that, by the time he had regained his focus, he’d eaten quite a bit more than he intended to. A last bite was taken and Sherlock sulked off to bed.

In the morning, Sherlock had a stomach ache. And the cake was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> In the process of moving my fanfics from tumblr and fanfiction to here. In the mean time, visit my tumblr daughterofholmes and my fanfiction SirienneHolmes! Thanks!


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